The tiny child stood forlorn, his eyes already ringed black with the sleepless years. Clutching a blanket against the biting desert wind, the forgotten teddy bear dangled from the end of his arm. Sand swirled above and around him, and he felt the warm touch on his shoulder clearly.

Gaara let out a humourless chuckle at that memory. The unfamiliar sound alone jerked his sibling's attention back to him, Temari gripping her fan with white fingers. If he woke, she knew, she would have no choice but to attack her young brother. She knew just as surely that the instant she raised a weapon against Gaara would be the instant of her death.

But her fears were unfounded. Gaara remained where he lay on the thin white mattress, his gourd leaning against the hospital bed.

To think I once believed Shukaku was my protector. Both mother and father to me. And look at us now.

Kankurou shifted uneasily, glancing at his sister for reassurance. He also had his weapon trained on Gaara's recumbent form; Karasu the mechanical marionette held tightly on Chakra strings. Like Temari, he held no illusions that their attacks could breach the blessings of Gaara's defences.

The blessing—and the curse, Kankurou pointedly reminded himself. The oldest of the little family didn't have much time for emotion and self-pity, dedicating himself to the pursuit of power with his chosen fighting style with passionate fervour.

One day, maybe he would be worthy. Maybe he, too, would possess the power that had elevated Gaara above so many Shinobi, the same absolute power over life and death in everyone they met. His jealousy of Gaara had raged since Kazekage had thrust the demon baby into his and Temari's keeping, but he had promised their mother... promised that no matter what, he would protect her unborn child from their father, from the world, and from himself.

Kankurou reminded himself sharply again to consider Gaara's feelings; emotion played a large part in his life, despite those dead eyes. No matter his contempt, he was still Kankurou's brother. No matter the power he held, he needed protection. No matter Kankurou's jealousy, he wouldn't take the power from the young Sand-nin.

Pain flared on his forehead, a bright spark of light in the deadness of perfect safety. Pain that seared his face and he screamed- screamed his exultation in life, screamed his joy at the hurt—the feeling—the knowledge that he wasn't, perhaps, as dead as he should be.

Then the pain ended, as sharply as it had begun. There would be no infection; the tattoo was no ink but blood, and Chakra-borne sand had etched the kanji far more precisely than any needle.

Gaara's lips twitched upwards again in the fake-sleep he had dropped himself into. That was a good memory, by his standards; he had, no matter the cost, realised his destiny. Whether he liked it or not wasn't the point; he had achieved serenity since that day, knowing exactly what his life was intended for.

The act of the tattooing, though, was itself a revelation—Gaara could direct the sand to harm his own body! The end of his suffering was at hand!

Feeling that it should be a ceremonial occasion, he had planned the deed carefully...

Full moon rose over the desert. Chill wind bit into him, but he didn't care. He revelled in the cold, even though it was only a shadow of true pain. Discomfort wasn't pain, it wasn't even real compared to delicious hurt. Now he raised one arm, and commanded Shukaku's arm to sweep him away, to draw him down into the desert like he had never existed.

How much sweeter the taste when the blood of his mortal prison fed the sand!

He stood there for many minutes, but in vain. Shukaku's laughter was a silent, malignant force that nearly shook him to his knees with its deep waves, seemingly emanating from Gaara's body. And a barrier of sand rose up before him. He flinched momentarily, but it remained stationary. After a while he recognised it for what it was. A windbreak. Shukaku was mocking him, keeping him from even that small emotion. Gaara flinched back, betrayed again by the spirit, but a wave rose behind him like a wave on the ocean and drew him against to the windbreak.

It was warm, and yielded under his grip. Gaara struggled for a moment more, then relaxed, accepting the embrace for what it was.

I will never hurt you, small one, Shukaku whispered in his mind.

Do you... love me? Gaara asked unexpectedly, surprising even himself.

There was silence for a moment. Gaara felt strangely alone.

It scared him.

Hai, my little one. I love you.

Sand wrapped around Gaara, holding him close and lifting him gently. As he lay cocooned, it began to move, bearing him back to the village.

I will always protect you. I will always love you.

The words sounded so human that Gaara almost believed them. Then the sand fell away, depositing him on the doorstep of the house he had, until recently, not lived alone inside.

And he remembered what Shukaku was.

I will always love you, the demon whispered once more, mocking his childishness, his desperation for affection. As long as you're... a good boy.

Kankurou and Temari tensed, catching their breath again as Gaara's eyes flickered and opened slowly. His gaze immediately locked on Temari and his mouth almost smiled, but his eyes stayed the same.

They darted around the room now, checking for signs of a struggle. At last, he looked back to his siblings, his little family.

"I.... slept?"

"Hai, you did," Kankurou replied, visibly relaxing, as did Temari. The danger was past. Gaara had slept almost three hours, during which time they had been on a knife's edge of nerves every time he stirred even slightly. They had taken a great risk in agreeing to watch their younger brother as he rested, but Gaara was adamant that they help him.

They had gone through this ritual once every year, when the strain of Gaara's possession became too much even for his considerable willpower. As always, they had given Shukaku a full meal of goat's blood beforehand, to distract the demon and allow Gaara to sleep for a short time with his Fake Sleep jutsu.

Over time, they had expected to grow more confident in watching over Gaara, as their skills grew. But if their power was budding, Gaara's was in full flower. His progress was in leaps and bounds; with every kill he grew wiser, and with added wisdom he grew stronger. They knew, more than ever, that if Shukaku had taken over while he slept, they had no hope of stopping the demon.

Gaara alone was unnerving; bonded with Shukaku he was truly terrifying.

The flame-haired Sand-nin sat up, his hand automatically dropping to the gourd at his bedside and stroking it, caressing it. Temari, hoping to intercept his return to his customary depression, spoke quickly.

"Did you dream, Gaara-chan?" Then she mentally cursed herself. He merely looked at her. "I mean, did you dream, Gaara," she corrected. Gaara didn't care for either formality or familiarity.

"Only the usual," he replied, once again showing no emotion. "Memories. Sand. Moon, blood, child."

Kankurou snorted. As Gaara turned his gaze upon him, he matched it for several seconds, then dropped his eyes. "Sorry. Frog in my throat," he muttered.

"Are you hungry? Let's go get some food," Temari suggested to defuse the tension. It seemed she was always making peace between the two; while Kankurou did his best for Gaara, the younger Shinobi's sheer—albeit well-founded—arrogance strained his nerves to breaking point.

"Good idea," Kankurou nodded quickly, happy to escape the uncomfortable situation. "And after that, we should be training. Baki-sensei will punish us if we do not represent the village properly." He spoke only to Temari; both of them knew there was no question of Gaara's success. Indeed, the primary reason they had joined him in the Chuunin exam was to try to restrain the awesome fullness of his power.

Gaara swung his legs off the bed, and seemed to notice their readied weapons for the first time. His eyes hardened again, and he led them from the room without looking back.

And Shukaku's dusty touch caught the tears before they could leak from his eyes.